Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  As expected, the foe offered no initial resistance and while several squads of the Fifth had been allocated to provide rearguard to the advancing forces, Squad Amanael was at the forefront of the Dark Angels’ thrust. They currently occupied a split-level apartment complex in a subsidiary tower to grid-northwest of the main spire. Such furnishings as they discovered were mouldering, the wood of couches and tables rotted through, the painted plaster on the walls crumbling.

  Having established their position, only a few hundred metres from a skybridge that linked the central tower to an offshoot complex believed to be the enemy command base, the squad were waiting for the Ravenwing to report back from their scouting missions.

  Standing in a one of the living areas, through a window Telemenus could see the enemy-held complex, like a spar across a mast extending several hundred metres to either side of the tower, each end of the spar tipped by a hexagonal structure. He turned to the others as they cleared out the other rooms of the apartment.

  ‘Why would the warrior elite live in the same squalor as the Unworthy?’ he asked, of no one in particular. He prodded a dilapidated chair with the toe of his boot, causing it to collapse into a pile of splinters and dust. ‘Surely the aspiration to the status of Divine is based upon a desire for superior accommodation, authority and privileges?’

  ‘Do you seek such things, brother?’ replied Amanael. ‘Are the trappings of status your goal when you strive for the Chapter?’

  ‘Of course not, brother-sergeant,’ Telemenus replied quickly, still conscious of the chastisement Amanael had meted out after the confrontation with the orks. ‘We are different. We are bonded together by brotherhood and service to the Emperor. Honour is the reward of dutiful service. You cannot compare this rabble with the Chapter, surely?’

  ‘Many different people fight for many different reasons,’ said Amanael. He nodded to Daellon to investigate a stairwell at the far side of the living space. The sweep was purely down to doctrine; no signal registered on the auspex within three hundred metres of their current position. ‘Some fight for anger, for temporal gain or in a bid for power. Others are driven by survival, love and duty. Although our foes exhibit barbaric practices and have become piratical parasites it is an error to assume that they desire only physical reward. The names themselves, the Unworthy and the Divine, indicate that this particular nest of pirates has a spiritual core, however flawed it may be.’

  ‘So the Unworthy aspire to become Divine out of a sense of higher purpose? If that is the case, why would they turn from the Emperor in the first place?’

  ‘You are too simplistic sometimes, brother,’ said Daellon, returning from his foray into the lower level. ‘The Emperor alone knows how long this station has been renegade. The collapse of fundamental systems and the divergent society of the renegades suggest it is some considerable time, several generations. They did not become the Unworthy overnight.’

  ‘Why does this occupy you?’ asked Amanael. ‘The corrupt nature of our foes is evident, why do you seek to understand their motives further?’

  ‘Idle curiosity, brother-sergeant.’

  ‘No curiosity is idle,’ Amanael said, motioning for the other two Space Marines to follow as he headed back towards the apartment entranceway. He led them out onto the balconied landing overlooking the other apartments, the rest of the squad assembling in the concourse below. ‘Do not allow the ways of the Ravenwing to colour your thoughts, Telemenus. One needs to know only enough about the foe to defeat them. Excessive interest in external cultures breeds doubt, and doubt brings dereliction of duty.’

  ‘As you say, brother-sergeant.’ Telemenus strode down the ramp leading to the others, walking beside his sergeant. ‘Perhaps idle was the wrong word. I confess that since Piscina I have become vexed by the nature of treachery. If we are to guard against the forces of rebellion, and to see the seed of it in others, we must understand it. Do you not agree, brother-sergeant?’

  ‘A would-be Grand Master,’ said Amanael, ‘who seeks greater understanding of the enemy. It is not our place nor our burden to think on such matters. Should you be honoured enough to be elevated to a position of command no doubt you will be occupied by these wider considerations. For the moment, be content that we act against the renegade and the heretic without mercy. It is not fit to wonder why they are misguided, nor is it your duty to seek empathy with them.’

  Though he was not satisfied with this response, Telemenus knew better than to press the point further or ask more questions. He found it remarkable that Amanael, who had shown himself to be an insightful and gifted warrior and leader, could care so little about the motivations of their enemy.

  A thought occurred to Telemenus as the squad departed the complex, heading back to the main through-channel that ran crosswise through the whole width of the tower. Perhaps it was Amanael’s dedication and focus that made him such a good candidate for leadership. A warrior with his honours and history should have been promoted to the First Company half a century earlier, but Amanael steadfastly remained a sergeant in the Fifth and seemed not only content but proud of that fact. He revelled in his strict adherence to the Chapter codes, and although he always gave fair hearing to the opinions of the battle-brothers, Amanael also countenanced no lack of discipline or dispute.

  ‘Hold position,’ ordered the sergeant as they headed grid-north along the broad corridor. They waited for a short while before Amanael spoke again. ‘We have fresh orders, brothers.’

  The enemy headquarters could only be reached by securing the spar on which it was built. Scanner and Ravenwing reports had determined that the Divine were holding their positions at the entrances to the spar and fierce resistance was expected. The task of the Fifth Company was to drive a gap through the defenders, allowing the Ravenwing to pass through the enemy lines and attack from the rear. Amanael’s squad were the closest to the grid-east entrance and they set off as other squads mustered for the attack.

  Passing along connecting walkways and corridors, cutting through deserted rooms that seemed as abandoned as the rest of the station, the squad made swift progress. Two hundred metres from their objective Apollon called their attention to the readings on his auspex.

  ‘Signals, in the chamber at the end of the corridor, on the right,’ he warned. ‘Unknown but significant number.’

  ‘Full attack,’ said Amanael.

  ‘Should we not wait for the others?’ suggested Nemeon. ‘Attack in force?’

  ‘We are nine warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, what manner of foe do you think we face?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Form up for attack. Achamenon and Telemenus take lead.’

  Each side of the corridor was lined with wide archways, through which Telemenus could see large halls. He assumed that once they had perhaps been meeting chambers of the station’s elite. He could see the ragged remains of banners and tapestries on the walls, their designs long-faded and obscured with decades of grime. Fifty metres ahead the corridor opened out into the broad concourse of a transportation terminal, covered with a large dome of crystalflex and plasteel. The tiled floor was heavily cracked, the panes of glass so smeared with a patina of filth that nothing could be seen of the stars beyond. Lampposts flickered and crackled, bathing the concourse in fitful patches of yellow light.

  There were remnants of counters and desks spread across the open area and more faded banners hung from chains above, while others lay draped over what remained of the furnishings, slashed and burned. Above, a gallery stretched three-quarters of the way around the edge of the chamber and on the left Telemenus could see rows of lifeless cogitator consoles through a line of arched windows.

  With a gesture, Apollon indicated a set of double-doors a dozen metres along the wall to the right. Telemenus and Achamenon took up position on either side of the entrance while the rest of the squad dispersed across the concourse, taking up positions to cover the other doorways and the balcony.
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br />   Telemenus inspected the doors. Like the rest of the wood on the station, they were eaten through by insects and rot, and slicked with moss. Despite their size, they seemed to be little obstacle to entry.

  ‘After you, brother,’ he said, motioning with his bolter to Achamenon.

  The other Space Marine nodded and stepped squarely in front of the portal. With a single well-placed kicked he smashed through the wood, the doors tumbling from rusted hinges.

  Half a second later an explosion engulfed Achamenon with a hail of red-hot shrapnel. The Dark Angel was thrown back by the blast, clattering to the tiled floor. Molten metal and jagged shards studded his armour from waist to helm, the ceramite outer casing of his plastron shorn away by the force of the explosion to expose inner fibre bundles and reinforced cabling.

  Telemenus reacted immediately, stepping between his wounded battle-brother and the doorway, bolter ready, providing physical cover while one of the others attended to Achamenon.

  The room beyond was large, bigger than even the pumping chamber where the orks had made their lair. It was a cathedral of some sort, its high-vaulted ceiling thirty metres above Telemenus’s head. Rows of decaying pews stretched for a hundred metres, the floor covered with carpet that had once been red, the colour showing through in patches amongst a slick of dirt. The detonation of the trap had thrown up a huge cloud of dust and stirred hundreds of flies and beetles, which flitted back and forth in the dim red light of fixtures hanging like censers from the ceiling.

  There was a shallow crater in the floor just behind the doorway and the nearest benches and fittings had been torn apart by the blast, a ring of black spread across the ground. Pieces of debris littered the doorway.

  Beyond the main floor, the hall was raised up to a dais bordered by a rail of rusted ironwork. It was from here that the ministers of the Ecclesiarch would have held forth with their sermons and the remains of a stone altar – deliberately toppled and broken – dominated the centre of the raised area.

  It was also from here, and on walkways lining the hall to the left and right, that the Divine opened fire.

  In the moment before the hail of fire engulfed him, Telemenus glimpsed armoured warriors. They did not wear suits of power armour, but the figures he saw wore some form of exo-skeletal harnesses fitted with roughly cut metal plates. Their heads were encased with helms that hid their faces behind gold-mirrored visors. Fortunately for him, their weapons were no better than those of the Unworthy and his armour weathered the storm of fire for half a second before he retreated out of the enemy line of fire.

  ‘Twenty-five, in superior firing positions,’ he reported as he grabbed the arm of Achamenon and dragged him away from the door, Daellon and Nemeon sprinting past to secure either side of the breached door. ‘Crude armour, basic weapons.’

  The others in the squad opened fire as more of the enemy poured onto the gallery overlooking the concourse, their fire falling upon the Dark Angels from two directions. Telemenus raked the edge of the balcony opposite, forcing back the figures that appeared there.

  ‘Brother, respond,’ snapped Amanael, kneeling beside Achamenon.

  Telemenus looked at the fallen Space Marine, knowing that what he saw was not encouraging. Blood pumped from several deep wounds at Achemenon’s groin and stomach. The explosive must have had some form of shaped charge to punch through the armour, and the mangle of cables and flesh that had once been Achemenon’s abdomen had been melted through as if hit by a plasma bolt.

  As Daellon and Nemeon unleashed their bolters from the doorway into the shrine room, Telemenus looked between them into the temple-hall. With more time to study the environment, he noticed the coil of wires and suspicious-looking boxes threaded around the lines of pews; more charges. He turned back to Amanael, who was attempting to reach Apothecary Gideon on the comm, still knelt beside Achamenon.

  ‘Brother-sergeant, our foes have made the whole area a deathtrap,’ he said. ‘You must warn the rest of the force.’

  ‘I have already informed the Grand Master,’ replied the sergeant, standing up. ‘Daellon, see if the flamer can deal with some of the devices. Telemenus, ready frag grenades.’

  Doing as he was ordered, Telemenus moved back from the door just as Daellon stepped out. The fire of the Divine greeted the Dark Angel but he was undeterred, firing a three-second burst from the flamer before retreating. Detonations rocked the hall, sending a cloud of dust and wooden shards billowing through the open door.

  ‘The damned fools placed the charges too close together,’ said Daellon as more charges were set off by the detonations, cascading along the hall with a noise like a long roll of thunder.

  ‘Attack!’ snarled Amanael. His chainsword growled into motion as he stepped towards the door. ‘Full attack!’

  Apollon and Nemeon stood back-to-back near the centre of the concourse, firing up at the gallery. Under the cover of their fire, the rest of the squad assembled by the door. Daellon stepped aside to allow Nethor to take up his position. The Dark Angel angled his missile launcher through the doorway and fired. A moment later, Telemenus charged into the shrine on the heels of Amanael, sprinting to clear the door for the others. The missile exploded on the altar stage, hurling fragmented marble and shrapnel through the Divine lurking there.

  The hall was lined with ferrocrete columns broad enough to provide shelter even for a Space Marine. Telemenus headed for the closest as bullets whistled past, crashing into the pillar shoulder-first as he skidded to a halt.

  Saphael and Menthius advanced more boldly, firing with the bolters as they strode to the left, picking out targets on the gallery above. The flare of their bolts lit the gloom, the spark of detonations flashing along the balustrade sheltering the enemy. Amanael stood just inside the door, snapping off shots with his bolt pistol, oblivious to the fire of the foe.

  ‘Reward their defiance with death,’ the sergeant told his squad, waving them on with his chainsword. ‘Swiftly, brothers.’

  Telemenus stepped out from behind the column and sighted on the Divine taking cover on the altar dais. Seeing them more clearly now, beneath their crude armour they wore much the same outfits as the other pirates. He realised that the harnesses were modified cargo-haulage suits, used by labourers for loading and unloading stores. The helms were also from the station’s original personnel, intended for use outside the star fort to prevent blindness from star glare.

  His bolt smashed through the golden visor of an enemy warrior, sending the Divine reeling back. From a raised pulpit at the right-hand end of the dais, two more manned a tripod-mounted heavy bolter. Explosive rounds shrieked into the pillar next to Telemenus as the Space Marine adjusted his aim towards this new threat. One of the heavy bolter’s rounds hit him in the arm as he opened fire, causing his burst of fire to pass harmlessly over the heads of the Divine.

  Reassessing his position, Telemenus moved back behind the column and emerged from the other side, sending a flurry of bolts into the heavy weapon position. The wooden rail of the pulpit turned to splinters and the Divine were cut down, the heavy bolter toppling over as one of them slumped across it, missing an arm.

  A plasma bolt seared across the cathedral from the gallery above Telemenus. He watched it smash into the smouldering remains of the pew beside Menthius. The Dark Angel spun on his heel and returned fire, sending a flash of bolts over Telemenus’s head.

  ‘More enemies, coming from grid-west,’ Apollon reported from back on the concourse.

  ‘Brother Seraphiel, how long until you reach our position?’ Amanael asked over the comm. The sergeant broke into a run, heading down the aisle between the burning pews towards the altar. ‘Heavy resistance encountered.’

  ‘Disengage and push through to the accessway,’ came the reply. ‘Squads arriving at your position in three minutes, they will provide rearguard.’

  ‘Acknowledged, brother-sergeant,’ said Amanael. Th
rough a hail of enemy fire the sergeant leapt up the steps to the dais with one bound. His chainsword swept left and right, bolt pistol blazing in his other hand as he charged into the Divine.

  ‘Plasma gunner still alive,’ warned Menthius. ‘Right above you, Telemenus.’

  Glancing up, Telemenus readied a frag grenade.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said, stepping out from under the balcony. He tossed up the grenade, bouncing it from a column so that it arced easily over the rail of the gallery. Even before it detonated, he unleashed a fusillade of bolts through the wooden panelling lining the gallery, and a moment later the frag grenade exploded, sending bodies and debris tumbling around Telemenus.

  One of the Divine crashed to the floor just in front of Telemenus. The enemy fighter wore a padded jerkin beneath his armoured exoskeleton, revealing heavily muscled arms pocked with scars, blisters and lesions on pale skin. The man stank of decay and filth, his clothes soiled, the struts of the exoskeleton showing spots of rust.

  Disgusted, Telemenus turned away, focusing on Sergeant Amanael as he chopped his way along the altar platform. A warrior behind the sergeant, armour rent open by Amanael’s chainsword, pushed himself back to his feet despite the horrendous gash across his chest. Telemenus fired a single bolt, hitting the man between the shoulder blades as he made a lunge for the sergeant, knocking the warrior down again.

  The wheeze of actuators caused Telemenus to look back. The Divine behind him surged from the ground and slammed into the Dark Angel, the force of the impact forcing Telemenus back a step. Arms powered by the exoskeleton wrapped around the Space Marine in a crushing bear hug, lighting up Telemenus’s visual display with a flurry of pressure warning icons. His bolter pinned beside him, Telemenus smashed his free arm onto the top of the Divine’s helmeted head, cracking open the helm. Still the warrior did not release his grip, Telemenus’s armour creaking under the strain; in seconds something would give way.